


in the backyard full of dying flowers

by smallredboy



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bad Advice, Bad Decisions, Boss/Employee Relationship, Canonical Character Death, Divorce, Doomed Relationship, Drinking, Gardens & Gardening, Grief/Mourning, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-12 14:06:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18012335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallredboy/pseuds/smallredboy
Summary: Philip's death causes Alexander to spiral both in terms of his broken marriage and the unspoken tension with his boss.





	in the backyard full of dying flowers

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is a complete mess but im rly happy to write it down!! finally going back to wham... missed them
> 
> fills the 'gardening' square in my gen prompt bingo card, and the 'a recipe for disaster' prompt in the shortfics dreamwidth community.
> 
> title from 'lemonade' by nicole dollanganger

Alexander is tending to the garden when he hears Eliza’s footsteps behind him.

He hasn’t been able to deal with this, at all— he doesn’t know how to deal with this at all. The first time he encountered death was when he was twelve, twenty-eight years ago, and in between those twenty-eight years, he hasn’t learned anything about how to cope with it. Especially when the person who’s dead now is a relative— is his son, Philip.

He’s trying to plant some roses when Eliza puts a hand on his shoulder. He turns— her face lacks any emotion. He knows their marriage is fizzling out more and more every day, with his infidelity and the scandal that followed. And now their son is dead, and their daughter had a mental breakdown. He knows where it’s heading.

“Alexander,” she says. “Washington came. He’s looking for you.”

He draws in a breath. There’s an unspoken tension between him and Washington, and he’d been more than disappointed on him when the scandal of his thing with Ms. Maria Reynolds came to light. But their tension hadn’t always been negative— Washington was openly gay, and his boss, and Alexander knew he was into him, his employee. And Alexander knew  _ he  _ was into  _ him _ , too, and he’d come into that realization before Ms. Maria Reynolds happened, before he even thought about having the heart to cheat on his wife.

He stands up and nods, heading to the living room— Washington is sitting on the couch, a glass of wine in his hand, brows furrowed and his shoulders tense. He’s imposing, as always— tall and clearly older than him (fifteen years, isn’t it?)   
  
“Mr. Washington,” he says.

Washington looks up, takes a sip of his glass. “Alexander. I’m so sorry about Philip, and I apologize for not going to the funeral.”   


Alexander shakes his head, drawing in a breath and looking at the floor. “It’s alright, sir,” he says. “You’re a busy man.”   
  
“I hope he’s resting well,” Washington tells him, taking another sip of his wine. Alexander could use a drink, but he knows how his coping goes, and he doesn’t want to go that way. So he sucks in a breath and stays silent, drumming his fingers against his thighs. Washington speaks again, “I hope you know you are still getting paid for however much time you take off.”   
  
“I’m coming back next week,” Alexander intercepts, looking up and shaking his head. Washington raises a brow. “I’m not on sick leave, I’m on  _ grief  _ leave. I need to keep working. It’s stupid to not go to work.”

Washington sighs. “Alexander,” he starts, but doesn’t follow up. He sighs. “You are not going to listen to whatever I advise you to do, right?”   
  
He shrugs. “Too stubborn to.”   
  
“Right.” He finishes the wine and puts the glass down. “Alexander, I just hope you’re aware than you can take as much time as you want. Grief is difficult.” He stands up, and puts his hand on Alexander’s shoulder. The touch makes him buzz all over his body, and he looks up, not knowing what to say. “Don’t make any irresponsible, stupid choices just to cope with grief.”   
  
“Understood,” he mumbles.

“I’ll see you next week. But if you aren’t functioning properly, I  _ will  _ send you back home.”   


Alexander tries to smile; he only manages to raise the corner of his lips a little. “Okay.”

* * *

Alexander wakes up with the sense of something being  _ wrong _ . Of course, everything’s felt wrong since Philip died, but it’s even worse than usual. He turns to see Eliza’s not in her side of the bed, and he gets out of the bed, the mattress dipping underneath him. He goes barefoot through their house; he can hear Junior whisper something or other to Angelica, and the murmur of something else.

He finally hears Eliza in the bathroom; the door’s just a bit ajar. He gets closer.

“If he doesn’t want the divorce, I will need your help, right?” 

His blood runs cold and panic seizes through his body. Of course, their relationship is doomed— there wasn’t a chance this isn’t where they’d end up, but they’ve been married for almost twenty years now. It’s a part of his life— one of the most important parts of his life.

He doesn’t know what to do as he listens to Eliza talk on the phone with some lawyer; it’s almost midnight, so he assumes it’s a friend of Eliza’s family, because there’s no way a lawyer takes job calls this late otherwise.

“Yes, I’m Hamilton’s wife… I know it has been seven years since the— the  _ scandal _ — but…”

He draws in a breath and goes outside, still barefoot, into the backyard and into his small garden. There’s not a single star in the sky— which isn’t weird, considering Albany’s pollution and the cloudy skies, but not even the Moon looks down at him. All he has is the grass at his feet and the flowers he’s attempted to take care of, to get his mind off his son, the one he couldn’t take care of.

He steps closer to the garden, turns on the flashlight on his phone. Most of the plants and flowers are okay; lilies, lavender plants, a growing apple tree. It’s all fine, except for…

He can’t help but stare, and a humorless, empty laugh escapes past his lips. He wants to cry, but it’s like the world is mocking him. Mocking him for his doomed marriage, for his upcoming divorce, for his dead son, for his mentally ill daughter, for his hopeless younger son.

The roses are wilting away.

* * *

 

His first day at work after two weeks isn’t the best.

Herc tries to offer him support in his awkward Herc way, and gives him a bear hug, and he simply nods and scurries away. He can talk about his upcoming divorce when he’s actually got the paper in his hands. Washington keeps an eagle eye on him (it’s not like that started now, anyway).

Lafayette tries to crack jokes with him and offers to go drink at some bar, which he declines, mainly because he doesn’t wanna go into a deeper downward spiral than the one that’s awaiting him. Jefferson looks at him with something similar to pity— which could send him into a blind rage if he wasn’t so exhausted and didn’t have the energy to go ballistic on Jefferson. Madison offers him his respects for his son and he nods awkwardly, not sure what to say.

“How are you doing?” Washington asks by when he’s got about two hours left at work. 

He looks up from his computer. “I’m just fine, boss.”   
  
“Anyone bothered you?”   
  
He goes back to the Word document in front of him. “No.”   


Washington puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes before pulling away. “I’m glad to hear that, Alexander. Good luck on this article.”   


The touch makes Alexander all warm inside out, like he’s buzzing on an energy he hasn’t felt in years, but he ignores it. “Thanks,” he says. Washington leaves and closes the door behind him.

Instead of ignoring it and going back to work, he ruminates on Washington’s too personal touch. Of course, he’s aware there’s a thing between them, a thing they don’t dare pursue. He wonders if Washington thought of pursuing years ago, when he wrote the pamphlet and he was widely known as an unfaithful man— if Washington was willing to ruin his employee’s marriage even further.

But no; he didn’t. Washington’s too much of a good man for that kind of selfishness. 

And now he’s here, and he knows his divorce is coming. But what if Washington refuses, what if Washington says  _ no, I carry power over you _ — would anyone hire him? Alexander Hamilton, the man who went public about his affair, the man whose son died in something he could’ve easily prevented? If he quit just to be selfish and to pursue something as ridiculous and unattainable as  _ George Washington _ , would it pan out?

He goes back to his article, as much as his mind drifts elsewhere as he types the rough draft out.

* * *

Every time he comes back from work, he half-expects Eliza to be somber, hand him the papers without a single word. But no, every time she’s there— talking with Angie and Junior; laughing, cooking, being alive and well and bright. Maybe it’s because she internalizes her grief very well— it took months for her to break down in tears after her father’s death.

God, she’s dealing with so much right now. With her father’s death— with her son’s death. And all he can do to get his mind off the latter is try to tend to their garden and fantasize about his  _ boss _ . He’s a little pathetic, maybe a lot pathetic. It doesn’t matter, he can deal with his self-loathing and the fact Eliza deserves so much better later.

He smiles and heads towards them, slowly, silently.

“And— and I wanna learn to play guitar!” Angie exclaims, looking up at Eliza with genuine happiness in her eyes. 

Oh, they’d already gotten the diagnosis, though. There wasn’t much hope to be had here— Angie’s manic.

“And I wanna write poetry, and play piano and sing—!”

“Very good, honey,” Eliza says, her hands combing through her daughter’s hair.

Alexander stares. He doesn’t want to sour the moment, but it makes his heart warm. Angie’s happy— at least for now. He doesn’t think they’ve noticed them.

“Hey, dad,” Junior says, voice cold as ice.

Oh. He gulps and looks at his son— fifteen years old, a badly done haircut, pimples all over his face, his mother’s eyes. He’s not too happy about seeing him, that’s for sure. He never is. “Hi kid,” he says anyway, smiling and stepping towards them, ruffling Junior’s hair. He pulls a face.

Eliza looks up at him. “Hi Alexander,” she says softly. “May we talk?”   


“Of course,” he replies, a curt nod, a formal smile. Like Eliza’s a business partner about to discuss a deal and not his wife. He doesn’t think they’ve had a whole, meaningful conversation for months now.

They head to their bedroom. The bed is perfectly made, like always; Eliza’s got a picture of Philip by her nightstand, like always. There’s nothing different, nothing off, and yet he can feel the impending sense of doom in their silence. She turns and heads to her nightstand, opening one of its compartments and taking out a small stack of papers.

“I think…” Eliza draws in a breath. “I think we both knew this was a long time coming.”

She hands them to him, and he stares down. Divorce papers, of course; there’s nothing else they could be. His heart sinks and he draws in a breath, unable to even think straight. All he knows is that he’s had it coming, that Eliza deserves better, that he needs to be better in general. He knows his only true option is signing it all.

“I need to think about it,” he says.

She nods, doesn’t question him, doesn’t press.

* * *

John is a good drinking buddy. He’s nearing forty-two, but he’s still as lively as when Alexander and him met over a decade ago. He’s still talkative as all hell, he still is a mess while drunk, he’s still so very gay for his fiancé, Lafayette. Nothing’s changed.

“John,” Alexander starts, downing another shot of whiskey. “So. I—” he wipes his mouth. “Eliza handed me the divorce papers.”   


“Oh shit!” he exclaims, almost joyful, slamming his open hand down on the bar. “Are you gonna sign ‘em? Or are you gonna take her to  _ court _ ?”

“Of course I’m gonna sign them,” he says, taking another sip of whiskey. His head hurts. “But I was thinking about. You know.”   


He blinks. “I know?”   
  
He draws in a breath. “Washington.”   


“Ohhhh,” John says, sucking in a breath and downing some beer. “Whoo. That’s… a can of worms you’ve got there, bud.”   
  
“I know.”   
  
“You think he’s as good as he seems? You’ve lamented over how even if you weren’t with ‘Liza he wouldn’t take you because you’re his employee.”

Alexander’s mouth gapes and he turns to John, blushing. “I’ve never said that.”   
  
John cocks a brow. “Blackout drunk you is a  _ delight _ .”   


He sighs. He’s definitely thought about it a fair bit, about how it’d be if he wasn't with Eliza— if Washington would’ve done something about their tension then. 

“He’s as good as he seems,” he says. “But…”   
  
“But what?”   
  
“I’ve got to wait until the divorce is finalized.” He can’t cheat on Eliza again. Even if their marriage is just a title at this point— he  _ can’t _ .

His head hurts more and more. He’s a little nauseous.   


“Oh, fuck that!” John exclaims, slamming his hand down again. “Dude, you two are gettin’ divorced anyway! It’s not like it’ll hurt your marriage, there’s no marriage to speak of! Just try to get in his pants. Y’all will be alright and you’ll finally get that goddamn dick.”   


Not taking John’s advice is a survival method when John’s advice tends to be so awful. But maybe he’s drunk, maybe he’s being stubborn, maybe he’s being hopeful and ridiculous and stupid and pathetic.

But still, he smiles at him, clears his throat. “You make a compelling argument.”   


John hiccups, wipes his mouth clean, gives him a toothy smile. “I know, darling.”

* * *

 

The morning after, Alexander has a terrible hangover, but he remembers John’s words crystal clear. A part of him thinks he’s right, the other part of him thinks  _ what the fuck is wrong with you? _

He goes to the divorce papers, tucked beneath his pillow, finds a pen. He signs them, leaves them on his nightstand for Eliza to see when she wakes. He’s going to do this, he’s going to let the pent-up desire and admiration finally be released. He’s going to kiss Washington.

He goes up the stairs to check on his children before he goes to work. Angie is sleeping, clutching onto a stuffed animal— ever since Philip’s death he’s latched onto that giraffe for support. That giraffe and Eliza. 

He doesn’t open one of the doors and goes for Junior’s room. He’s asleep too, bags under his eyes, but he looks calmer and less exhausted. He’s exhausted all the time— he goes to school, he comes back and locks the door to his bedroom. He only leaves it open when he goes out to eat or when he goes to sleep.

Alexander understands— he was like this after his mother’s death, too. He hasn’t learned to cope much. He gently nudges him awake, saying it’s past seven. He doesn’t try to do the same with Angie— she can’t deal with school anymore. Her breakdown triggered by Philip’s passing has affected every single corner of their lives.

Junior glances up at him and straightens up, getting up. He doesn’t try to make contact; he turns around and goes to work.

Hercules checks on him, like usual, and he shakes his head, says everything’s fine, he’s just focused.

As soon as lunch break is looming over them, he turns off his laptop— the second draft of the article is halfway done. He’s going to do this— he’s going to do it. He’s a terrible person, he’s made his bed and he’s going to lie in it, he’s going to unleash everything he’s always thought of. Ever since he met Washington over a decade ago.

Washington’s office isn’t locked. He steps in without any sort of warning. He’s there, on his computer, and his brows are knitted together, and there’s nothing going on. He looks up at him.

“Alexander?” 

He draws in a breath, digs his nails into his palms. “Eliza and I are getting a divorce.”   
  
Washington’s brows rise a little. “Oh, Alexander, I’m so—”

He interrupts him, “And I want you to kiss me like we’ve both wanted for the last  _ ten years _ .”

He stands up, and for a second Alexander thinks oh, this is it, thinks he’s just going to go for it like there’s nothing in between them.

“Alexander, you’re not thinking clearly, the divorce and your son’s—”

“Washington!” He raises his voice and Washington blinks. He’s not sure he’s ever raised his voice at him before— he’s too untouchable to do that. “Shut up. Kiss me. The world’s ending and I’m having fun with it.”   


Washington’s voice veers into the edge of worry, “Alexander—”

“What? I know you want to! Stop worrying about the fifteen years between us, about Eliza, about the fact you’re my boss!” he exclaims, stepping closer towards him. This is his breaking point, apparently. He pulls at Washington’s tie, making him stumble closer towards him. “Just  _ do it _ ,” he breathes.

Washington stares, and he stares back, relentless. Always relentless.

He pulls him into a kiss, a hand on his cheek and the other on his shoulder, always pulling him closer, ever closer. He sighs into Washington’s mouth, kissing back, angry and upset and tired and relieved. It’s too many emotions at the same time and he can’t breathe. But he keeps kissing Washington.

When he pulls away, there’s a coat of guilt over Washington’s eyes.

“Alexander—” he starts.

“Shut up,” he insists, pulling him into another kiss. Hungrier, messier, like he won’t ever get enough. Washington’s lips can’t compare to his dreams of them— soft against his own; Washington’s nails against his cheek. Washington’s clean shave against his beard.

It’s like everything fades away when Washington kisses him. When Washington kisses him, his life isn’t falling apart.

When he comes home from work, he’s still dazed and filled to the brim with serotonin, and he speaks with Eliza in calm terms, talking about how to finalize it, who will get what— he knows reality will strike him soon enough. He knows that, maybe, he’ll fall into a deeper pit next time.

He still goes outside, looks at the trees, at all the flowers. The sun is shining, but his happiness floats through the roof, through the clouds. He’s happy, happy, happy. Washington’s lips are still on his in his mind.

He looks down and he sees the wilting roses, and snips them off, takes them off the ground they don’t belong to anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> please leave comments and/or kudos if you enjoyed this!


End file.
